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Archive for the ‘A-B (by poet name)’ Category

Is it a sin to love thee? Then my soul is deeply dyed,
For my lifeblood, as it gushes, takes its crimson from love’s tide;
And I feel it’s wave roll o’er me and the blushes mount my brow
And my pulses quicken wildly, as the love dreams come and go;
I feel my spirit’s weakness; I know my spirit’s power;
I have felt my proud heart struggle in temptation’s trying hour;
Yet, amid the din of conflict, bending o’er life’s hallowed shrine,
Yielding all, my soul had murmured, I am thine, forever thine!

Is it a sin to love thee? What were existence worth,
Bereft of all the heaven that lingers here on earth!
Friendship’s smiles, like gleams of sunlight, shed their feeling o’er the heart,
But the soul still cries for something more than friendship can impart.
Frozen heart, like ice-bound eyries, that no summer ray can melt,
Vainly boast their power to conquer what their hearts have never felt;
But envy not their glory, ‘mid the rapture that is mine,
When with earnest soul I tell thee, I am thine, forever thine!

Is it a sin to love thee? Gentle voices round me fall,
And I press warm hearts about me – but I’ve given thee my all.
What though stern fate divides us, and our hands, not hearts, be riven-
My all of earth thou hast-wilt more? I dare not offer heaven!
But in some blessed moment, when our dark eyes flashing meet,
When I feel thy power so near me, feel thy heart’s quick pulses beat,
Then I know-May God forgive me!- I would everything resign
All I have, or all I hope for – to be thine – forever thine.

Is it a sin to love thee? I remember well the hour
When we would our love to conquer, resist temptation’s power;
When I felt my heart was breaking and my all of life was gone;
When I wept the hour I met thee, and the hour I was born;
But a hidden storm was raging, and amid the muffled din
I flung my arms upon thy bosom, with thy warm hands clasped in mine,
I smiled through tears and murmured: I am thine, forever thine.

Is it a sin to love thee? with love’s signet on thy brow?
Though thy lot be dark as Hades, I’ll cling to thee as now;
Not mine the heart to fail thee, when other cheeks grow pale;
We have shared the storm together; I’ll stand by thee trough the gale.
Though our bark may drift asunder, yet, with true hearts beating high,
Let the golden sunlight cheer us, or the angry storm clouds fly.
From our helms with steady brightness our light shall shine,
And the watchwords on our pennons shall be-thine, forever thine.

Is it a sin to love thee? When I bend the knee in prayer,
And before a High Omniscience my burdened heart lay bare,
On the breath of love to heaven ascends thy blessed name,
And I plead weak and erring nature, if loving thee be shame.
Heaven know ’tis no light sacrifice I’ve offered up to thee,
No gilded dream of fancy, but my being’s destiny.
Since our fates we may not conquer here, divide thy lot from mine-
In the starlit world above us, call me thine-forever thine!

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They followed Him by thousands when he took some fish and bread
And a banquet in the desert by His miracle was spread.
They sang aloud, “Hosanna!” and they shouted, “Praise His name!”
When in an hour of glory to Jerusalem He came.
They followed when He told them of a kingdom and a throne,
But when He went to Calvary, He went there all alone.

It seems that many people still would follow Him today
If He only went to places where everything was gay.
For the kingdom that they’re seeking isn’t one the world scorns.
And the crown of which they’re singing isn’t one that’s made of thorns.
Oh, they’ll follow for the fishes over land and over sea,
And they’ll join the church at Zion, but not at Calvary.

It’s so easy, friends, to follow when the nets are full of fish,
When the loaves are spread before you and you’re eating all you wish.
When no lands, nor lots, nor houses and no friendships are at stake,
When there’s no mob to mock you and you have no cross to take.
But you’ll need some faith to follow down through Gethsemane,
And you’ll need some love to follow up to Calvary!

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I

I said – Then, dearest, since ‘t is so,
Since now at length my fate I know,
Since nothing all my love avails,
Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails,
..Since this was written and needs must be –
My whole heart rises up to bless
Your name in pride and thankfulness!
Take back the hope you gave, – I claim
Only a memory of the same,
– And this beside, if you will not blame,
..Your leave for one more last ride with me.

II

My mistress bent that brow of hers;
Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs
When pity would be softening through,
Fixed me a breathing-while or two
With life or death in the balance: right!
The blood replenished me again;
My last thought was at least not vain:
I and my mistress, side by side
Shall be together, breathe and ride,
So, one day more am I deified,
Who knows but the world may end to-night!

III

Hush! If you saw some western cloud
All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed
By many benedictions – sun’s
And moon’s and evening star’s at once –
And so, you, looking and loving best,
Conscious grew, your passion drew
Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too,
Down on you, near and yet more near,
Till flesh must fade for heaven was here! –
Thus leant she and lingered – joy and fear!
Thus lay she a moment on my breast.

IV

Then we began to ride. My soul
Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll
Freshening and fluttering in the wind.
Past hopes already lay behind.
What need to strive with a life awry?
Had I said that, had I done this,
So might I gain, so might I miss.
Might she have loved me? just as well
She might have hated, who can tell!
Where had I been now if the worst befell?
And here we are riding, she and I.

V

Fall I alone, in words and deeds?
Why, all men strive and who succeeds?
We rode; it seemed my spirit flew,
Saw other regions, cities new,
As the world rushed by on either side.
I thought, – All labour, yet no less
Bear up beneath their unsuccess.
Look at the end of work, contrast
The petty done, the undone vast,
This present of theirs was the hopeful past!
I hoped she would love me; here we ride.

VI

What hand and brain went ever paired?
What heart alike conceived and dared?
What act proved all its thought had been?
What will but felt the fleshly screen?
We ride and I see her bosom heave.
There’s many a crown for who can reach.
Ten lines, a statesman’s life in each!
The flag stuck in a heap of bones,
A soldier’s doing! what atones?
They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones.
My riding is better, by their leave.

VII

What does it all mean, poet? Well,
Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell
What we felt only; you expressed
You hold things beautiful the best,
And pace them in rhyme so, side by side,
‘T is something, nay ‘t is much: but then,
Have you yourself what’s best for men?
Are you – poor, sick, old ere your time –
Nearer one whit your own sublime
Than we who never have turned a rhyme?
Sing, riding’s a joy! For me, I ride.

VIII

And you, great sculptor – so, you gave
A score of years to Art, her slave,
And that’s your Venus, when we turn
To yonder girl that fords the burn!
You acquiesce, and shall I repine?
What, man of music, you grown gray
With notes and nothing else to say,
Is this your sole praise from a friend,
“Greatly his opera’s strains intend,
But in music we know how fashions end!”
I gave my youth; but we ride, in fine.

IX

Who knows what’s fit for us? Had fate
Proposed bliss here should sublimate
My being – had I signed the bond –
Still one must lead some life beyond,
Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried.
This foot once planted on the goal,
This glory-garland round my soul,
Could I descry such? Try and test!
I sink back shuddering from the quest.
Earth being so good, would heaven seem best?
Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.

X

And yet – she has not spoke so long!
What if heaven be that, fair and strong
At life’s best, with our eyes upturned
Whither life’s flower is first discerned,
We, fixed so, ever should so abide?
What if we still ride on, we two,
With life for ever old yet new,
Changed not in kind but in degree,
The instant made eternity, –
And heaven just prove that I and she
Ride, ride together, for ever ride?

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Though fickle Fortune has deceived me
(She promis’d fair and perform’d but ill),
Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav’d me,
Yet I bear a heart shall support me still. 

I’ll act with prudence as far’s I’m able,
But if success I must never find,
Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome,
I’ll meet thee with an undaunted mind.

 

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Ole Abe (God bless ‘is ole soul!)
Got a plenty good victuals, an’ a plenty good clo’es.
Got powder, an’ shot, an’ lead,
To bust in Adam’s liddle Confed’
In dese hard times. 

Oh, once dere was union, an’ den dere was peace;
De slave, in de cornfield, bare up to his knees.
But de Rebel’s in gray, an’ Sesesh’s in de way,
An’ de slave’ll be free
In dese hard times.

 

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Memory, hither come,
And tune your merry notes:
And, while upon the wind
Your music floats,
I’ll pore upon the stream
Where sighing lovers dream,
And fish for fancies as they pass
Within the watery glass. 

I’ll drink of the clear stream,
And hear the linnet’s song;
And there I’ll lie and dream
The day along:
And when night comes, I’ll go
To places fit for woe,
Walking along the darkened valley
With silent Melancholy.

 

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William Henry Harrison

A song during William Henry Harrison’s presidential campaign
against incumbent Martin Van Buren:

What has caused this great commotion, motion,
…….Our country through?
…….It is the ball a-rolling on,
For Tippecanoe and Tyler too, Tippecanoe and Tyler too.
And with them we’ll beat little Van, Van, Van;
…….Van is a used-up man.

 

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I loathe, abhor, detest, despise,
Abominate dried-apple pies.
I like good bread, I like good meat,
Or anything that’s fit to eat;
But of all poor grub beneath the skies,
The poorest is dried apple pies.
Give me the toothache, or sore eyes,
But don’t give me dried apple pies.
The farmer takes his gnarliest fruit,
‘Tis wormy, bitter, and hard, to boot;
He leaves the hulls to make us cough,
And don’t take half the peeling off.
Then on a dirty cord ’tis strung
And in a garret window hung,
And there it serves as roost for flies,
Until it’s made up into pies.
Tread on my corns, or tell me lies,
But don’t pass me dried-apple pies.

 

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My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O my soul is white!
White as an angel is the English child,
But I am black, as if bereaved of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree,
And, sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
And, pointing to the East, began to say:

“Look on the rising sun: there God does live,
And gives His light, and gives His heat away,
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

“And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love;
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

“For, when our souls have learned the heat to bear,
The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice,
Saying, ‘Come out from the grove, my love and care,
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.'”

Thus did my mother say, and kissed me,
And thus I say to little English boy.
When I from black, and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,

I’ll shade him from the heat till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our Father’s knee;
And then I’ll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will then love me.

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Links to analysis:

http://www.sparknotes.com/poetry/blake/section4.rhtml

http://www.gradesaver.com/songs-of-innocence-and-of-experience/study-guide/summary-the-little-black-boy

http://www.tate.org.uk/learn/online-resources/william-blake/songs-innocence-and-experience/songs-innocence-little-black-boy

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Little_Black_Boy 

https://poemanalysis.com/the-little-black-boy-by-william-blake-poem-analysis/

 

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She has laughed as softly as if she sighed,
She has counted six and over,
Of a purse well filled, and a heart well tried –
Oh each a worthy lover!
They “give her time”; for her soul must slip
Where the world has set the grooving:
She will lie to none with her fair red lip –
But love seeks truer loving.

She trembles her fan in a sweetness dumb,
As her thoughts were beyond recalling,
With a glance for one, and a glance for some,
For her eyelids rising and falling;
Speaks common words with a blushful air,
Hears bold words, unreproving
But her silence says – what she never will swear –
And love seeks better loving.

Go, lady, lean to the night-guitar,
And drop a smile to the bringer,
Then smile as sweetly, when he is far,
At the voice of an indoor singer.
Bask tenderly beneath tender eyes;
Glance lightly on their removing;
And join new vows to old perjuries –
But dare not call it loving.

Unless you can think, when the song is done,
No other is soft in the rhythm;
Unless you can feel, when left by one,
That all men else go with him;
Unless you can know, when unpraised by his breath,
That your beauty itself wants proving;
Unless you can swear, “For life, for death!” –
Oh fear to call it loving!

Unless you can muse in a crowd all day,
On the absent face that fixed you;
Unless you can love, as the angels may,
With the breadth of heaven betwixt you;
Unless you can dream that his faith is fast,
Through behoving and unbehoving;
Unless you can die when the dream is past –
Oh never call it loving!

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